I discovered my love of movie soundtracks when I was fourteen years old. If memory hasn’t failed me it was the summer before I entered high school and, while my family and I were at the nearby science center exhibit for how movie’s are made, I stumbled upon the sound booth and put on the massive headphones to see what the exhibit was about.
What I heard was nothing like I’d heard before.
It was Danny Elfman’s Christmas Eve Montage from The Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack, a five minute piece that I must have pressed repeat and listened to at least five times in a row. Up until that point I’d never seen Tim Burton’s stop-motion masterpiece so I had no idea what the track coincided with; what I experienced was a gush of emotion, a sweeping wave of sounds that took me to another dimension. It was playful, scary, odd, dissonant, strange, sad, and incredibly beautiful.
My older brother eventually burned me a CD copy of the songs, and I listened to the album nonstop for at least a good semester of my freshmen year; I watched the film at some point, though it was a good time after I’d obsessively listened to Elfman’s compositions and formed images of different scenes and characters in my head. Even now my original idea of how the scene with the Town Meeting Song track goes still permeates my mind whenever I listen to the track. If anything, Elfman’s marvelous score for The Nightmare Before Christmas amplified my love for what sound and music can accomplish in conjunction with moving images.
I’ve always been inclined to sound. It began with my first lessons in piano, which was ear training. My first piano teacher, Maki, always told me to listen, listen, listen: for a long time I couldn’t even properly read music, but I was able to ear-train the melody correctly. I knew where to place my hands, what note produced what sound, and so on. This ear-training has really carried on into my later life, where I still can’t sight-read or transcribe music worth a damn, but give me a tune and with a bit of time, I’ll be playing the melody and, with a bit more time, eventually the bass chords. I hated performing like a technical machine, and even though it got me in quite a bit of trouble with the last piano studio I studied at I always preferred to perform with the energy and vibrancy of emotion instead of performing in the pursuit of technical perfection; this led to less-than-perfect performances, but it was always a personal evocation of images created with the magic of sound.
I suppose that it was only natural and inevitable that my inclination for sounds and their association with images would lead me to discover my love for film soundtracks. For a long time, I believed that a soundtrack was only noteworthy if it sounded beautiful by itself and in conjunction with film; now, years later and having collected three hundred and five soundtrack albums currently, I believe that foremost, a soundtrack helps create the illusion of what we’ve come to love in movies: how that illusion is created depends on the composer. Cinema is all about creating an illusion, a dictated narrative that does not allow for a great range of experiences (that task falls onto the medium of games, which I’ll discuss in the future). Sound and music help establish that illusion.
Many moviegoers are under in the impression that a soundtrack must supply or indicate a mood at a given moment, signaling us to feel a particular emotion at a particular time; this is not inaccurate, but what this attitude has also resulted in is many Hollywood and television productions requiring music to be played at every nearly every single moment, and many soundtracks have resorted to what I consider musical cliches. For instance, french horns and strong strings often dominate a military march, counter attack or victory (watch/listen to Michael Bay films and you’ll be able to ID this cliche like no other); dissonant strings pervade nearly every horror film I’ve had the courage to sit through; and many indie films resort to compilations of different artists performing a known but not MTV-status song that screams of Bohemian counterculture. Whenever I hear ‘stock music’ in film, or what is a similar sound composed with the very sole purpose of creating the stock sound’s stereotypically associated emotion, I remember the scene from Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Jason Segel’s character, a TV composer, begrudgingly presses away at stock sounds when the music producer cues him in for a particular emotion the scene calls.
Not the scene but I can only imagine how many frustrated composers are out there dealing with music producers who only want stock sound-emotions.
While many soundtracks do resort to this kind of 'stock sound-emotions,’ there are always those whose compositions go far and above that. The question is: how do we distinguish these kinds of soundtracks from the average 'stock sound-emotion’ construction?
Whenever I can, I try to listen to an album before actually seeing the movie. Thankfully, American movies tend to release their albums before the release of the actual movie, so this has given me ample opportunity to listen to many albums without the context of the images they have been paired up with. My criteria for a pre-movie album listening are these:
- Is it an original score, a compilation, or a mixture of both? If it’s an original score, does the composer have similar or distinct composition styles compared to their previous work?
- Is there a distinctive theme?
- Are the tracks interesting? Or, why are certain songs chosen?
- How complex are the orchestrations/instrumentals/lyrics/vocals?
- Are the tracks able to convey a non-stock sound-emotion image on their own? i.e. does the track convey more than simple emotions like happy, sad, scary…?
- Would I willingly listen to this album if it wasn’t created for a movie/TV show?
You’d be surprise how many times I’ve found exceptional albums by listening to them before actually watching the film it was composed for. Some albums are constructed specifically with the intention of the characters singing on screen: those familiar with the Disney Renaissance of the '90s will easily remember Howard Ashman and Alan Menken on The Little Mermaid and Beauty & the Beast soundtracks, as well as the subsequent albums that followed similar musical suit. Some composers like Yoko Kanno (Cowboy Bebop, Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex), Michael Giacchino (The Incredibles, UP), and Joe Hisaishi (Spirited Away, Ponyo) compose wonderful soundtracks that, all in all, could essentially be listened to without the associated images. Some composers like John Williams (Star Wars, Schindler’s List), Howard Shore (Lord of the Rings), Phillip Glass (The Truman Show, The Hours) and James Horner (A Beautiful Mind, Avatar) do have distinct thematics, but most of the tracks are more impressive when the associated moving images are known. Sometimes soundtracks are created by commissioned musicians, such as Sondre Lerche for the Dan in Real Life album, Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, and Glen Hansard and Market Irglova for the Once soundtrack. Sometimes the soundtrack might be a re-working or rearrangement of classical music like Clint Mansell on Black Swan or Disney’s Sleeping Beauty album that was basically Peter Tchaikovsky’s ballet of the same name rearranged with different track names.
I always have a difficult time with compilation albums since they are often constructed with a specific purpose in mind: Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation, Someday) compiles soundtracks based on the idea the characters in the film would actually listen to these same songs; Quentin Tarantino (Kill Bill volumes 1&2, Inglourious Basterds) often creates albums that, like his films, pay homages to his cinematic and pop-cultural influences; but more often than not, I suspect that many compilation albums tend to be more young-adult oriented, in which songs are compiled intended to evoke a pop-cultural mood or be intentionally ironic, such as films like (500) Days of Summer, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and Juno. And sometimes soundtracks are comprised of both original scores and compilations, such as Jon Brion’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Alexandre Desplat’s Fantastic Mr. Fox, and Rolfe Kent’s Up in the Air.
After I’ve seen a movie and listen (or re-listen) to its soundtrack, I critique the album based on these criteria:
- Is it an original score, a compilation, or a mixture of both? If it’s an original score, does the composer have similar or distinct composition styles compared to their previous work?
- Have I listened to this album before the movie? If yes, does this change my idea of what image and emotion the tracks convey? If not, would I willingly listen to this album if it wasn’t created for a movie/TV show?
- Is there a distinctive theme?
- Are the tracks interesting? Or, why are certain songs chosen?
- How complex are the orchestrations/instrumentals/lyrics/vocals?
- Do the tracks overwhelm the scene they are paired up with? Or are the tracks themselves underwhelming?
- If I hadn’t listened to the album before seeing the movie, did watching the movie inspire me to listen to the album?
“Enterprising Young Men” by Michael Giacchino from 2009’s “Star Trek,” which is a good example of how music can overwhelm the scene. Not the best video quality since you can’t hear the dialogue well/at all, but now imagine trying to listen to the dialogue with a track that’s already pretty overwhelming.
The criteria is similar to my pre-screening album-listening criteria, but the emphasis is more on the pairing between music and image as opposed to what the track by itself accomplishes. Many of my favorite soundtracks, such as Thomas Newman’s Finding Nemo, Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howards’ The Dark Knight, and Yuji Nomi’s Whisper of the Heart, became much more impressive once I understood the context of scenes the tracks were paired with. Some albums, such as Dario Marianelli’s Pride and Prejudice and Daft Punk’s Tron: Legacy, already impressive on their own, were only reaffirmed to be masterfully composed once I’d seen their respective movies. Other albums, such as Michael Giacchino’s revamping of the classic Star Trek in J.J. Abram’s 2009 reboot, become even more overwhelming once you understand the scene with which the tracks are associated with (many will disagree with me here, but I felt that Giacchino’s score should have been toned down a bit; there was already so much happening visually on screen, and having my ears bombarded with the bombastic score became a bit much).
For compilation albums, it becomes much easier to assess how effectively the selected tracks are in complimenting (or ironically contrasting) the scenes on screen; it also becomes blazingly obvious which compilation albums have been created with a specific intention, and which albums are just looking to create a pop-culture and/or Bohemian counterculture music reference (unfortunately, with most compilation albums I’ve found the latter to be the more common reason, though I’m open to the possibility of being proven wrong one day).
According to Disney’s staff, foreigners (non-Japanese) feel uncomfortable if there is no music for more than 3 minutes (laughs). You see this in the Western movies, which have music throughout. Especially, it is the natural state for a (non-Japanese) animated film to have music all the time. However in the original Laputa, there is only one-hour worth of music in the 2 hour 4 minute movie. There are parts that do not have any music for 7 to 8 minutes. So, we decided to redo the music as (the existing soundtrack) will not be suitable for (the markets) outside of Japan…
The American way of putting music in a movie is basically very simple. They just match the music with the characters. For example, when the army shows up on screen, you hear the army’s theme. The music explains the screen images–that is the point of Hollywood music. Until this time, I avoided such an approach, as I felt that it would make music dull, although I understand such an approach. But when I redid (the music of Laputa this way), I learned a lot.– composer Joe Hisaishi on rearranging the “Castle in the Sky” soundtrack for the US theatrical release
Sound and music are quintessential to film, but what many cinephiles and audiophiles forget is that to create an effective illusion, silence is also a necessity. One of the reasons I was ironically underwhelmed by Giacchino’s overpowering Star Trek soundtrack was that for the most part, it rarely allowed any silence on screen; I can’t remember any point where there wasn’t some music blaring in the background. More often than night, silence is golden, and the lack of sound can create a more powerful emotion than any instrument could possibly achieve. Ironically, having sound and music blast on screen every single moment detracts from the illusion because it can be overwhelming and/or distracting. Comparatively, we could even argue that early silent films, which were often screened with live performances, have less of an illusionary effect because music was always playing in every scene.
Here is a perfect example of how effective the minimalistic use of (or lack of) music can be is this marvelous scene in My Neighbor Totoro. Here, Satsuki and Mei have been waiting for their father, a professor, to come home. A lot of time passes, and eventually a giant Totoro comes into scene where it interacts with a astonished but fascinated Satsuki (her little sister Mei has fallen asleep on her back). After the exchange between the Totoro and Satsuki, the Totoro eventually boards a Catbus and disappears, leaving both sisters (Mei is awake at this point) bewildered by what they have just witnessed.
No music plays throughout this entire scene up until the point where the Totoro arrives, and all the better. Music would detract away from the mystique that a giant Totoro presents, a mystique that is further emphasize by how minimalistic music plays once a supernatural creature makes its appearance. The magic is a result of us only being focused on this sudden mythical presence, and the lack of special music up until this oint makes it even more magical since the emphasis is on its very image in an otherwise normal forest. Music is present while the Totoro is in scene, but it is barely present and does not detract away from the Totoro’s mythical image
My criteria for film soundtracks are far from perfect, but I think they are helpful for those wondering where to start when it comes to critiquing music (and the lack of) in film. Contrary to my more youthful notions, music is more than about sounding beautiful, though a nicely composed track is always nice to hear.
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SOME SELECT TRACKS FROM SOME OF MY FAVORITE COMPOSERS
“Tank!” by Yoko Kanno, from “Cowboy Bebop” – this track sets the mood of this wonderfully stylish anime
“Jazzy Bach” by Ben Charest, from “The Triplets of Belleville – a jazzy revamp of a classic Bach piece (which I actually performed, I believe) that is rather appropriate given the oddball feel of "The Triplets of Belleville”
“Anyone Can Cook” by Michael Giacchino, from “Ratatouille” – the wonderful song that plays during Anton Ego’s famous critique on criticism.
“Define Dancing” by Thomas Newman, from “Wall•E” – this plays during the scene where Wall-E and EVE engage in a beautiful dance in space
“Transformation” by Howard Ashman and Alan Menken, from “Beauty & the Beast” – set at the very end, I’m fond of this track because its arrangement and emotional range not only make it a stand alone track, but also a track that fully support the climax of this animated classic.
“Rickshaw Chase” by Hans Zimmer and John Powell, from “Kung Fu Panda 2” – incredibly energetic, this track sounds from the recent Kung Fu Panda installment makes a good case for why Hans Zimmers’ work deserves an Oscar nod this upcoming year
“Mr. Fox in the Fields” by Alexandre Desplat, from “Fantastic Mr. Fox” – playful and light, this track demonstrates Desplat’s incredible range when you contrast to his other work such as Harry Potter and The Ghost Writer
“Briony” by Dario Marianelli, from “Atonement” – if anything, the ingenius use of the sounds from a typewriter are what distinguish Marianelli’s “Atonement” composition from any other dramatic piece. I still gripe that the Academy chose this score of Giacchino’s “Ratatouille” at the 2008 Oscars, but this score does deserve its recognition.
“The Girl who Fell from the Sky” by Joe Hisaishi, from the USA soundtrack version of “Castle in the Sky” – I learned recently that Hisaishi actually rearranged his pieces for the US release of “Castle in the Sky” in 2002 because Disney felt there was too much silence in between the films. You can read his interview here.
“Sean’s Theme” by John Williams, from “Minority Report” – Williams’ minimalistic take on “Minority Report” was met by some criticism who felt that he’d fallen into the 21st minimalism trap. I feel that the track “Sean’s Theme” does demonstrate a central composition technique that Williams’ employs in most of the albums of his I’ve listened to: a central theme (or a distinct melody) that highlights the overall soundtrack, and the rest serves to support and help create the illusion of cinema. In all of his albums he uses a full symphony, and his main thematics are always especially sweeping. Try Across the Stars and Raider’s March if you’re still curious to see what I mean.
“Bookstore” by Jon Brion, from “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” – the minimalistic, slightly electronic orchestration is rather appropriate to Charlie Kaufman’s film about relationships, given that the characters voluntarily opt for what is essentially brain damage because their hearts are broken.
“Vanessa and the Changelings” by Philip Glass, from “The Hours” – a true minimalist, Glass manages to evoke the sadness and melancholy of Virgina Woolf’s life in this just over two minute track. A wonderful score, to say the least.
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RECOMMENDED READING
• Sofia Coppola on the Somewhere soundtrack - via Pitchfork
• Francis Coppola’s Twixt and Live Performance at Comic-Con 2011 – via Hollywood Reporter
• The Spheres of the Music – via Roger Ebert’s blog
• Full Joe Hisaishi interview on rearranging the “Castle in the Sky” soundtrack for the US theatrical release – via Nausicaa.net
*Note: Michael Phillips is one of the few film critics I know of who regularly comments about soundtracks while writing his film reviews. I highly recommend a read, like his comments on “Black Swan” and Tchaikovsky’s score
*Lastly: if you haven’t guessed it already, the first image is of John Williams scoring “Raiders of the Lost Ark” :)